All The Things We've Never Done
by northernexposure
Summary: Angsty H/R one-shot set post S8.


All The Things We've Never Done

A/N: Set sometime post 8.8. Supposed to be a one-shot. I think it probably still is. Weird, angsty, and not my best work, but I hope you'll read and review anyway, as this was written on a bad, bad day.

_When I dream of you these days_

_I know my dreams are mine and not of you_

_Yet something hangs between us_

_Older and stranger than ourselves_

'From An Old House In America' – Adrienne Rich

* * *

Ruth looked up to find the rest of the Grid in darkness. Surprised, she glanced at her watch – the day had grown old without her noticing, and her lamp was the only one still lit. Apart from the light in Harry's office, of course, slightly dimmed to acknowledge the hour. She watched him for a moment. He was leaning over a file on his desk, his head lowered and resting against one hand, elbow on the polished wood. Even without knowing him well, it was clear to see the fatigue etched in the furrows of his brow.

She realised with a jolt that this was the first time since her return to MI5 that this situation had occurred. In the days before her peaceful death and violent re-birth, they would often find themselves alone together at an hour like this. In truth, those times used to thrill her – she'd hope for them, wait for them, the bustle of the day mere prelude to those silent, separated, solitary minutes. It almost made Ruth smile now, to remember how illicit it seemed, how her heart would beat faster in spite of her very best intentions, when she discovered that at last, it was just the two of them left on this floor.

Very often, nothing at all would occur. She'd carry on working – it was rare that she actually needed to, but there was always something to do and what else did she have to accomplish, elsewhere? So she'd work, and work, until Ruth realised that if she didn't leave sharpish, she'd miss the last bus home and have to get an expensive taxi. On those evenings she would grab her things and stick her head around his office door to bid him goodnight. And that would be it – their only contact the entire time.

And on the bus on the way home, Ruth would wonder at how empty her evening had been, and think about all the things she could have done with it if her head had not been full of Harry Pearce.

On other evenings it would be he who left first, sometimes for an official function, sometimes because he was simply too tired to stay. On those nights it would be he who gathered his coat and bid her goodnight on his way to the pods, a brief smile touching his mouth along with the words.

And on the bus on the way home, she'd curse herself for wasting yet another pointless evening at work, when she should have been out doing something. Anything. Anything but sitting there, waiting for something that was nothing even when it did happen.

But when it did…

She could probably count on one hand the times that those quiet and solitary evenings had turned into 'something', and even then they would hardly be of note to anyone else, she was sure. But for Ruth, back then, they made up for every evening that they never spoke a word except goodbye, and for every bus journey where she felt a lonely, hopeless fool.

The first had taken her completely by surprise – Ruth had needed to take him a file, perfectly legitimately. In fact, her presence at work after hours that day was entirely called for and had nothing to do with anything else. So when she walked in, briskly, without knocking, what she found had disarmed her completely.

Harry had not been sitting at his desk, but was instead lounging on his sofa. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was hanging loose and his collar was undone. He did not immediately notice her enter, on account of the jazz playing in the background. The music also threw her off-balance, particularly since the soundproofing of his office meant she hadn't realised anything was playing at all. He'd had a file open on his casually-crossed knee, one arm flung out across the sofa back, and a tumbler of whisky in his other hand, one finger tapping against the glass to the beat of _Willow Weep For Me._

Ruth had never seen him in such a relaxed state before, and she'd instantly frozen to the spot, blinking. And then he'd looked up at her with a smile that was so soft, so languid, so unlike anything he'd leveled at her before. And Ruth had been utterly shocked to feel her insides dissolve into a magma of pure sensation.

After a moment he had cocked his head to one side, watching her. Then he'd reached for the HiFi remote to reduce the volume of the music. "Ruth?" he'd asked, in the face of her silence. "Everything alright?"

She'd stuttered something and made to leave the file on his desk, but by the time she had turned around, he was standing behind her.

"Will you join me for a drink?"

The offer had stunned her almost as much as his proximity had. She'd found her eyes tracing over his open collar and had had to force herself to look away.

"Come on, take a break," he'd insisted, turning away to fetch her a clean glass. "You've worked so late, you deserve it."

And the rest of the evening had been passed in his office, talking of this and that, until she'd felt her heart was ready to explode. That evening Ruth had not even bothered looking at her watch, until Harry had exclaimed at the time, and she'd had to confess that she would have no way to get home. So he had driven her – for those were the days before he had a driver – and dropped her off at her front door.

The other incidents were much the same, evenings spent in harmless and yet, for her, deeply illicit chat, always unexpected and far too few in number.

Now, Ruth blinked, and found that through all her reminiscing, she'd been staring straight through his window. What she couldn't tell was how long Harry had been staring back.

Flustered, she looked away and began gathering her things, kicking herself. But of course, it was too late. She heard his measured footsteps crossing the floor, making for her desk, and there was now no way to pull on her coat and leave.

"Ruth," he said, softly, drawing to a stop in front of her desk.

She bobbed her head. "Harry. I was just-"

"Staring," he said, with a slight smile.

Ruth felt herself blush. "Sorry," she muttered. "I'm just tired, and… and… middle distance…"

Harry nodded graciously, but didn't let her go. After a moment, he said, "I only remember you staring at me quite like that once before."

She looked up at him, genuinely surprised. He smiled. "It was a long time ago. You were working late and I was still in my office. I was listening to music, I think, and you came in and just… stood there. Staring."

Ruth felt her blush intensify. "I'm-I'm sorry…"

He shook his head. "Don't be. It was…" Words seemed to fail him, and he shrugged.

"Well," said Ruth, into the convenient silence, "I think I should go."

Harry took a step around the desk. "Don't," he said, and suddenly the air seemed thick with something that made her breathe faster, and faster, until her heart was pounding against her ribcage. "What I do remember about that night," he murmured, some moments later, "was how much I wanted to trace my fingers along your collarbone."

Ruth sucked in a breath, "Harry-"

He cut her off. "I remember that night so clearly, Ruth, that and every night we sat there, talking. All we ever did was talk, and yet…"

She should tell him to stop. She should get out of there, get away, get home…

"And yet?" she prompted, despite herself, because the look in his eyes was turning her insides to lava, and it was as if she had never been away.

He smiled, a wry, lopsided gesture. "And yet all I ever wanted to do was touch you, Ruth. Kiss you. Stroke my fingers…"

Harry broke off as she shivered. She wanted to shut her eyes, but found herself unable. "Why didn't you?" she found herself whispering, instead. If he had spoken back then, if he had done something, earlier… Oh, how different life might have been…

"You could not begin to imagine, Ruth," Harry murmured, "how many times I have asked myself the same question."

They stood, still and silent, caught in the invisible, intractable whirlpool of everything they had never done.

Harry reached out, touching his fingers to her face, sliding them under her hair until his thumb framed her cheekbone. "Am I too close?" he asked, voice a harsh whisper in the dense night.

"Yes," she said, shakily, but he moved closer still.

"Tell me to stop."

He filled her vision completely, looming in front of her, eyes fixed solely on her. Ruth tried to breathe, but the scent of his aftershave filled her from the inside out, and she felt him moving forward until there was nothing between them but her resolve. He moved his thumb, slowly, across her lips, eyes never leaving hers.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered again. "Tell me you want me to stop."

But she didn't. Oh, god, she didn't.

His lips canted her into oblivion with a kiss unrecognisable from their last such union. That touch had been rushed, desperate, and he had been unprepared for it, but this time – this time… Overwhelmed, Ruth tasted whisky and parted her lips, his bottom one full between them. Harry pressed her closer, free hand at the base of her spine, tongue testing the boundaries of her invitation, taking her up, up, up…. It went on and on, until Harry pulled them back to Earth, kisses becoming shallower until he finally took a breath and rested his forehead against hers.

"I'm here, Ruth. I'm alive, and I can't help that," he said, eventually. "And you can't look at me like that, can't kiss me like that, and tell me that you want to walk away from what we should have done a lifetime ago."

She felt tears spill down her cheeks, and shut her eyes as he moved away from her.

A moment later, Ruth heard an incongruous jangle of metal, and looked to see that he had placed a set of keys on her desk. House keys. They were a set of his _house _keys.

"I can't let you go, Ruth," he said, his voice thick. "I never let you go."

She was still staring at his keys when he left the Grid.

He hadn't even said goodnight.

[END]

* * *

Author's additional note: For anyone who might be wondering what's going on with 'A Distant War' - I'm sorry, I've had to take a break because of work pressures. I'll get back to it as soon as I can.


End file.
